Desperation
by AstrophobicChick
Summary: Angst. Moriarty steals Sherlock and locks him away. Slowly Sherlock starts to break down with devastating results. Forced Morlock. Rape. AU. Dark.
1. Change of Plan

A/N: I have an obsession with Moriarty. Soo, I'm going to do a fanfic about him :) and Sherlock of course.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

"No, friends protect you!"

Sherlock watched as John threw him a dirty look, before leaving the room and slamming the door behind him. If only John knew the truth behind those words, but how could he? Sherlock told him so many times that caring wasn't an advantage that John truly believed he was cold hearted. He envied John, the simplicity of his brain, and how he looked without properly seeing. However right now, that was the only thing saving John from death. Sherlock needed John to believe that he was cold, heartless - a fake.

He heard a beep and pulled out his phone.

_I'm waiting - JM._

Sighing, he stood up, brushed the creases out of his coat, and made his way towards the roof. He knew deep down that this was it, no turning back now. John was safe, at least that was something. He hoped that Molly was prepared, and that she wouldn't let him down. He felt guilty, knowing that he was only using her to save the people he cared about. She had always been willing and so loyal, that it made him wish he gave her some more attention.

Still, this was it. No point in feeling guilt, guilt wasn't going to make this situation any better, so he erased the memories from his mind, instead focusing on the task in hand. He climbed the stairs slowly, his feet almost dragging against each step.

Finally he reached the top and squinted slightly as the sun hit his eyes. He could see Jim, sat on the edge of the roof, staring across London, his back to Sherlock. How easy it would be to push him off the edge, and end all this once and for all. It was a stupid idea, as Sherlock knew full well that Jim would have more men hidden across London, just waiting.

He could hear music playing, and felt himself smirk slightly. Staying Alive. How ironic. Or maybe it was a clue, Sherlock wasn't sure. The music stopped suddenly and Jim swung his head around, his dark eyes resting on Sherlock's light blue.

"I must say, you chose a good place," Standing up, he walked over to Sherlock, "How does it feel? Me winning?"

"You haven't won," Sherlock smirked, "I figured out the code, I can change everything."

Jim stared at him, "Oh, the key code? Hmm."

He turned and walked back towards the edge of the building, "There is no key code."

"Then how..?"

Jim spun around, his arms opened wide, "Then how did I do all that stuff? Magic, and a little co operation."

Sherlock watched him, his face showing no emotion. He was expecting this, after all, Jim Moriarty was very persuasive when he wanted to be.

"That's old now," Jim drawled, "I'm over it. No, I need to talk to you about something else. Your fall."

"My fall?" This was it, this is what he was waiting for. "I'm not going to jump off of a building to satisfy you, Moriarty."

"Jump? No, I don't want to kill you. Not yet anyway, I have other plans for you, Sherlock."

"Like?"

"You know, I envy you, Sherlock. You and your little pet, John. I want my own pet, someone who is truly mine."

"Get one then."

Jim grinned, "I have."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, "Good for you, can I go now? I have stuff to do."

"Oh Sherlock, you and me were made for each other. You are my pet, or will be soon."

"I'd rather die," Sherlock hissed, turning back towards the door. "I really would."

"Would you rather John died? Or Mrs Hudson? Or that DI from Scotland Yard? I have snipers trained on each of them. They will all die unless you agree."

Sherlock stopped walking, "So you're making me choose? Myself or them? Not a good question to ask a sociopath."

Jim giggled, "We both know that you care though, especially with that doctor of yours. Shame if something was to happen to him. Or even Mrs Hudson, you threw someone out of the window just because he touched her. And then there's Lestrade, the only man in Scotland Yard who actually cares for you. Does he mean nothing?"

"So what am I expected to do? Live with you? What?"

"Help me mainly," Jim said, running one hand through his hair, "Help me bring down your brother, and other stuff."

"Mycroft? I can't."

"Your darling brother was the one who told me about you, everything. He shopped you in so you can't mean much to him."

Sherlock paused, "Mycroft wouldn't do that. We may not get on but even he wouldn't sink so _low"_

Jim smirked, "Are you sure about that? His job means more to him than you do. Why do you think he's always watching over you? It's because of him that you're in this position."

Well this was new. Would Mycroft do something like that? Would he stoop so low? Sherlock didn't know what to believe, Moriarty was a good liar, that's certain but how else would he know all that stuff? John wouldn't tell him, which only left Mycroft.

"I'll let you think it over, you have twelve hours and then I'll come for you, Sherlock. I'll come for you."

"Think what over? This is insane, even for your standards. I thought you were going to make me jump, I even had it all _planned out."_

Jim giggled, "Well I am _so changeable, _Sherlock. Besides this is funner isn't it? This little game."

"It's not a game," Sherlock growled, clenching his fists, "You're threatening me, how is that amusing?"

"Twelve hours, Sherlock, and don't go running to your brother - or actually - do, and then you'll see that I'm telling the truth. I meant it when I said we were good for each other, don't you agree?"

"I don't do relationships," Sherlock sniffed, "But if I did, I wouldn't look twice at you."

Jim walked towards the door, "Twelve hours, and then I'll find you."


	2. Goodbye

A/n: Wow, I got really good feedback for this so far. Thanks guys :) It's my birthday today so I'm staying up late doing another chapter. It's too hot to sleep anyway :(

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Sherlock was sure he was dreaming, that it was all some sort of sick joke. He was prepared to fake die for John and the others but live with Moriarty for the rest of his life? Could he actually do that? Would he? Even if he did kill himself, it wouldn't change anything. Moriarty would still tell the snipers to kill John, as well as Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.

He sat on the roof watching London as the sun set, his mind working fast. If Mycroft was to blame then surely he could help? He was the British Government after all. Surely he could hide everyone until Moriarty was out of the picture?

He pulled out his phone, and dialled his brothers number. After two rings, Mycroft picked up.

"Mycroft Holmes."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Did his brother even care? No, of course he didn't. It wasn't affecting him was it?

"Mycroft," he muttered, "I need to talk to you."

He heard Mycroft groan and felt himself getting angry. His brother was meant to protect him, look after him, not sell him out to some psychopath who was now threatening to kill everyone that mattered to him.

"Sherlock, I'm busy at the moment. I have a meeting with -"

"I don't care, Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted, cutting his brother off, "You don't know what sort of trouble I'm in right now."

"Knowing you Sherlock, it's nothing important," Mycroft snapped.

"Moriarty, Mycroft. You know him? Of course you do, you sold me out to him."

Silence, and then, "What about him?"

Sherlock sighed, "He's going to kill everyone I care about, Mycroft, unless I go and live with him. Be his pet as he put it."

"What's he said?"

"He said I have a choice, I can either go live with him and help him bring you down, or I can run away. In which case, John and everyone else will die."

More silence.

"What are you going to do?" Mycroft asked finally.

"What can I do, Mycroft? I can't let John and the others die, I just can't. I'm sorry."

"So, you're going with him?"

Sherlock slammed the phone down, swearing under his breath. He climbed onto the ledge and let his feet hang over, swinging them slightly whilst he watched the people down below. They didn't have this problem, they didn't have to choose between their family and their friends. Or if they did, it wasn't life or death with them. No, they lived their little boring lives. Something Sherlock was jealous of right now.

He was so prepared to fake die and now Moriarty had changed the game leaving him in doubt and confusion. Molly was probably down there, wondering what was going on.

He picked up his phone and sent her a quick text, apologising for wasting her time and telling her he was thankful, then he chucked his phone over the ledge.

The cool air cleared his head slightly and he let out a small sigh. Maybe he could get close to Jim and then kill him, lull him into a false sense of security and then rip him apart. The idea of getting John's gun and holding it to Moriarty's head made him smile. If only he could do that.

* * *

He stayed on the roof for several hours, just listening to the traffic and life of London. It was only when the sky turned dark and cold that he got up and headed home. John was probably panicking and Scotland Yard had probably broken into 221 B again, but right now all Sherlock cared about was Moriarty and how he could bring the bastard down.

Reaching 221B, Sherlock saw that the street was lined with police cars, as well as the sleek black car belonging to his brother. This was all he needed, added attention. He was just about to turn around and head off in another direction when he heard someone - John - call his name.

"Sherlock! Where have you been?"

He spun round slowly, "I had stuff to sort out."

"Don't lie. Mycroft told us everything. We know about Moriarty and what he's making you do. You can't seriously be thinking about going with him, can you?"

He narrowed his eyes, "Mycroft had no right to tell you that."

John walked up to him, his eyes wide with worry, "Sherlock, you can't. He'll kill you."

"He'll kill you if I don't, and what did you say? friends protect each other? well here I am, protecting you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson."

John opened his mouth, shook his head, and shut it again.

"Oh yeah, I need your gun," Sherlock added, "Precaution and all that."

"My gun?"

"Yes, I need it. You don't think I'm just going to go with Moriarty, do you? I have a plan."

He hated lying to John, but he couldn't tell him the truth. He needed to go, and he wanted John to be ok with that, or as ok as you can be in this situation. He also knew that John would run to Mycroft and Lestrade which would just delay everything and cause problems. So, instead he put on his most blank-uncaring face and prayed to god that John would believe his lies.

John sighed, and reached into his back pocket where the gun was currently hiding. He pulled it out and after a moments hesitation, passed it over to Sherlock, who quickly stuffed it into his coat.

"You will be careful, won't you?" John murmured, looking down at the ground.

"I'll try," he smiled, "I need to go now."

"You can't. They're all waiting for you inside, Mycroft, Lestrade, even Mrs Hudson is worried," John said quickly, looking up at Sherlock, "You can't just - go."

"I have too," Sherlock sighed, pulling John in to a hug, "The sooner I go, the sooner I can come back."

He said those words to comfort John but really he was the one that needed comforting. He wasn't even sure if he would come back, or if this truly was the last time he would see and touch John. The thought of never hearing John laugh, never annoying him with his deductions, never having him by his side made Sherlock's stomach flip over, and he felt tears run down his face into John's hair.

John pulled back slightly, and gazed up at him, "Sherlock, are you crying?"

"N-no, I'm fine," Sherlock sniffed, hastily wiping away the tears, "I need to go, John. Say goodbye to Mrs Hudson and Lestrade for me."

John nodded, his own eyes slightly red, "Good luck, I'll be waiting."

Sherlock smiled, pulled his coat up, checked the gun was still in place, and then turned into the night. He kept walking, step by step, until he had rounded the corner, and then he fell against the wall and broke down properly.


	3. No Turning Back

A/n: I cannot believe how popular this fic is already. I'm watching Sherlock "The Great Game" whilst writing this so that I can keep Sherlock and Moriarty in character as much as possible. Moriarty is really hard to write for due to his complexity.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything.

Warnings: Violence, someone dies.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't going to make it easy for Moriarty. He wasn't going to wait outside 221B Baker Street and allow the psychopath to just _collect _him. No, he still had some self respect left. So, instead he was walking around London, stopping off here and there when certain places brought back memories of him and John.

He stopped off at Scotland Yard, the place that was basically his second home, where he would just waltz in, annoy Anderson and Donovan, and then waltz out again, John in tow. Would he ever step foot inside there again? The place seemed dark and empty, a bit like Sherlock felt, and he gave it one last look before heading off down the road.

He called a cab and told the driver to take him to St Bart's hospital. He wanted to see the place where he and John first met, the place where fate intervened and made him meet the most important man in his life. They may not be a couple, but John was the only one Sherlock cared about. He was only doing this for John, sure he cared about Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, but he would be completely lost without his blogger.

The cab stopped and he got out, looking up at the familiar white building. Even this place had a different feel to it. It looked cold, even eerie now, and Sherlock couldn't believe that only a few hours ago the place had a totally different atmosphere. It usually felt warm, and homely - or as homely as a hospital can be - but now it seemed sad, almost as if it felt Sherlock's pain.

Sherlock sat on the curb, his head in his hands and his eyes closed. Memories flowed through his mind; Him and John meeting, John being amazed by him, John saving his life, John's face when Irene kept texting him, John with the bomb strapped to him. If their paths didn't meet then John could of lived a normal life, with a normal person.

Yet he met Sherlock and now he was in danger, again. And by the same person. Moriarty. Sherlock owed John his life and now he was going to pay up.

"I thought you'd be here."

Moriarty stepped out of the shadows, his hands in his pockets. "You can't get away from this place, can you?"

He looked up at St Bart's and smiled.

"I still have two hours to decide," Sherlock growled, his voice muffled by his hands.

"I'm so -"

"Changeable. Yeah, you said," Sherlock interrupted, looking up at Moriarty with his eyebrows raised.

"Be careful, I could still have John killed." Moriarty snarled, before grinning again.

"Why? I'm doing what you want, am I not? Leave him alone."

Moriarty knelt down in front of Sherlock, "You really care for him, don't you? I saw your little goodbye. So sweet. If John's a threat, I will have no choice but to kill him."

"This has nothing to do with John, or anyone else. It's between you and me."

"True." Moriarty shrugged. "So, are you going to come along quietly or am I going to have to drag you, kicking and screaming? Personally I prefer the latter."

Sherlock stood up, checking that the gun was still safely in his pocket, and bowed to Moriarty. "After you."

Moriarty clicked his fingers, causing two men to appear, one holding a metal pole, the other holding an old sack. Sherlock eyed the pole with apprehension. Surely Moriarty wouldn't -

"I told you, I prefer the latter. Now, unless you want to have a banging headache and severe brain damage, put up a fight!" Moriarty barked, his eyes a light with adrenaline.

"No."

Moriarty nodded to the man with the pole, and a second later Sherlock fell to his knees, stars swimming around his vision. Everything in the street doubled up, and Sherlock felt as though his skull was in two parts. He grabbed his head and could feel something sticky running down his hand.

"That was a warning," Moriarty snarled, "Disobey me again, and John will die."

The man twirled the pole around his fingers, chuckling to himself. Sherlock could see his blood dripping from one end onto the pavement and felt his stomach turn.

"S-someone's bound to h-hear this," he croaked, pulling himself onto all fours, "S-someone will come."

"So? I'll just kill them, problem solved. Now, back to you. Resist or John dies."

Sherlock didn't have the energy to resist, he barely had the energy to stand up without falling over, let alone put up a fight. The stars continued to dance stubbornly in front of his eyes, and blood was now pouring into his ears.

He swallowed and leant against a lamp post, praying to god that he wouldn't pass out.

Moriarty held up a hand, "5 seconds, Sherlock," he sang happily.

Dizziness was still consuming Sherlock's mind and he could barely hear Moriarty's voice. He pushed himself away from the lamp post and stood shakily in front of him.

"Four."

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer - or at least say something - when he felt another blinding pain in the back of his head, forcing him forwards. He fell with a thud to the pavement at Moriarty's feet, and rolled onto his back. This pain was worse than the last, causing him to cough up blood and grasp his head with both hands.

"Three. Two. One. Times up, Sherlock."

"N-no, Don't," he cried, "P-please, not J-john."

He could feel the darkness swallowing him, the pain residing slightly, and didn't bother trying to fight it. He wanted to die, to escape this pain, this nightmare. What he didn't want was a pair of hands grabbing his shoulders and pulling him into a standing position. His head rolled forwards and his eyes closed. Whoever had hold of him was the only thing keeping him stood up as he couldn't even feel his legs anymore.

"Don't worry, Sherlock. I won't kill John yet, but someone needs to die," Moriarty whispered into Sherlock's ear before turning to the two men, "Put him in the car."

* * *

Sherlock woke up to find himself in a small room. The only thing in there apart from himself was a large, flat screen TV. He scanned the rest of the room; one exit, no windows, one small light hanging from the window, before closing his eyes again. His head began to buzz and the memories from last night slowly fell into place.

Where was Moriarty?

The door opened and he heard soft footsteps walking in his direction. He didn't need to open his eyes to know whose footsteps they were. He recognised that sound anywhere.

"I'm going to kill you," he grunted, opening his eyes and glaring at Moriarty.

"Aw, but I have a surprise for you!" Moriarty said, pulling out a remote and flicking on the TV.

The picture was fuzzy to begin with, the image jumping around the screen, before settling on Scotland Yard. It zoomed in on the entrance and Sherlock could see Donovan and Anderson milling about outside, talking amongst themselves.

A second later and Anderson was lying on the floor, dead.

Sherlock watched as Donovan dropped to the floor beside him, her face twisted in agony. There was no sound, but for once Sherlock was glad. He didn't want to hear her screams, the look on her face was horrific enough.

The TV died, and Sherlock turned to Moriarty, his body suddenly numb.

"You killed him," he muttered, unable to believe what had just happened. Sure, he didn't _love _Anderson, but he never wanted him dead. The image of Donovan's shocked face just before the TV died burned in his mind.

"You killed him, Sherlock. I told you, you disobey me and people die. I can work my way through Scotland Yard, if you like? The more you resist, the more innocent people that die," Moriarty shrugged, fiddling with his suit.

"Why him?"

"Why not? He was nothing special, just an ordinary idiot. You didn't even like him, thought I was doing you a favour."

Sherlock wanted to scream, he wanted to run, go back to Baker Street and be with John. He didn't want to be stuck here, with some lunatic, watching innocent people die for the sake of it.

"I'm sensing a hint of displeasure. Well then, this should be a motive for you. Do as I say and no one else will die. Don't, and I'll kill more and you can watch," Moriarty smirked, opening the door, "See you later."

He walked out leaving Sherlock alone with only his thoughts, the image of Donovan still clear as day in his mind.


	4. Alone

A/N: Sorry for the delay. I've been Ill because of the stupid heat so I had no energy to write.

This chapter will be from John's point of view.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Enjoy.

* * *

John's life went downhill instantly since Sherlock left. Everything around him felt different, even 221B felt cold these days with no Sherlock prancing around, either playing the violin, or doing some mad ass experiment. John left everything exactly how it was; the violin propped against the wall near the sofa, the experiments dotted precariously around the kitchen, so that if Sherlock were to return everything would be just how he liked it.

He was currently sat on the sofa, laptop on his knees, gazing around at the flat. The wall that Sherlock shot still wasn't fixed, and the TV that John bought months ago lay gathering dust in the far corner. He half expected Sherlock to strut in, say he had a case, and strut out again. In fact, he would give anything for that to actually happen, anything to get rid of the emptiness and guilt that he felt at this precise moment.

He slammed the laptop shut and placed it on the table. He couldn't just sit here whilst his best friend was god knows where, having god knows what done to him. Sherlock gave up his freedom so that John and the others were safe, but what was the point in being safe when your life is dull and meaningless all the time?

He needed to talk to Lestrade, get it into his head that Sherlock wasn't a fake and that Moriarty was real. Lestrade wasn't aware that Sherlock risked his life for him, he didn't know that the consulting detective actually cared for him. No, instead he listened to the likes of Donovan and hunted Sherlock down.

His stomach dropped as he remembered Donovan's name. He saw on the news what had happened to Anderson, and he knew who was behind it. Surely Lestrade would listen now that one of his own officers was dead.

He got up, grabbed a jacket and made his way downstairs. Once he got outside he called a cab and told the driver to take him to Scotland Yard. He pulled out his phone and dialled the familiar number that belonged to Sherlock.

_"Sorry this number is no longer in service."_

His stomach twisted as the phone cut off, leaving a dull silence. Sherlock's phone was his last lifeline and now he didn't even have that.

Reaching Scotland Yard, John noticed that the place where Anderson was shot was taped off. Faint red patches could still be seen on the floor along with something that looked suspiciously like vomit.

He made his way inside and up to Lestrade's office.

Lestrade was sat behind his desk, his head in his hands and a large pile of paperwork in front of him. He looked up as John entered and smiled faintly.

"John, what can I do for you?"

"I wanted to talk about.. Anderson," John said slowly, sitting down opposite the DI.

Lestrade's face tightened slightly, "What about him?"

John wrung his hands together and bit his bottom lip, "It was Moriarty who killed him."

"Moriarty doesn't ex-"

"Yes he does!" John interrupted, his hands now clenching into fists, "He does exist, Lestrade. He tried to blow me up, he was the one that had Anderson killed."

Lestrade wiped his brow with one hand, "John, look we -" he broke off as Donovan walked into the room, her eyes narrowing as she caught sight of John.

"What are you doing here?" She spat, moving around the desk so that she stood next to Lestrade.

"Talking to Greg, what does it look like?" John replied coolly.

"If you're here about freak then we don't care," she said, "he's played you and now he's run off with that Richard Brook guy. I reckon they both set it up, and you fell for it."

"Richard Brook doesn't exist, Moriarty does. Seems like you're the one who fell for it," John sighed, "Moriarty has taken Sherlock, come on Lestrade, you were there when Mycroft told us."

Lestrade shook his head, "I don't have time for this, John. I need to sort out Anderson's paperwork and then try and find out what happened."

"Moriarty is the one -" he broke off, he was wasting his time. No one wanted to know, Lestrade had turned back to the paperwork and Donovan was sneering at him.

"If Sherlock was who he said he was then where is he? Where is this Moriarty that no one else has seen, hm? Where are they?" She asked, her eyebrows raised.

"I told you, Moriarty has taken Sherlock!" John said, his voice laced with frustration.

Donovan only shook her head, "They're both fakes, John. I told you to stay away from him, and now you see why."

John stood up and made his way to the door, "Sherlock is not a fake, and neither is Moriarty. I'll prove it to both of you."

"Go for it," Donovan shrugged, "It's your life that's being wasted, not ours."

John stopped with his hand on the door knob, "Yeah, I'm sure Anderson would say the same thing."

He watched as Donovan's face paled, and then left the room, a look of satisfaction on his face.

* * *

_Okay back to Sherlock now._

Sherlock was getting fed up now. He was still in the small room, with the same large TV, except this time Moriarty had it tuned into British daytime television and Sherlock was now being forced to watch the Jeremy Kyle show. He half wished he could reach his gun, either to shoot the TV or himself, whichever would stop the pounding headache that he now had.

He wasn't sure where Moriarty went or even where he was, only that it was cold all the time. Going by the walls however, it looked as though he was in some sort of warehouse. That would also explain the complete lack of heat.

Moriarty had also decided to handcuff him to a small bed, making sure that Sherlock could always see the TV. The volume was kept up loud to ensure that Sherlock couldn't avoid it, even if he closed his eyes. The screams from the TV were seriously starting to drive Sherlock insane, and he tensed his face up in a bid to try and ease the headache that was now threatening to explode.

He hoped that John was now safe, and that he would slowly get over him. He also hoped that Mycroft would find out some sort of plan and save him. His brother was the British Government so it couldn't be that hard to do. He hadn't eaten since he arrived at this place, and was now starting to feel weak. Every part of his body ached from the attack and along with no food or water, was starting to make his life very difficult.

The door opened and Sherlock glanced over at Moriarty.

"Where do you keep going?" Sherlock croaked, his mouth painfully dry.

Moriarty flicked the TV off and beamed, "Business."

Sherlock didn't want to know what "business" meant, only that innocent people were bound to die again instead he closed his eyes and dropped his head onto the pillow, he could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness and felt his body welcoming it.

_He was back at 221B Baker Street and it was Christmas time. John was sat in his usual chair, gripping a glass of white wine and humming along to the music that played. Mrs Hudson was lighting the fire and placing decorations around the flat, and he was sat on the sofa, violin on his shoulder, playing slow notes._

_The door opened and Molly walked in, along with Lestrade and some others that he didn't know the name of. They took off their coats and smiled as they gazed around at the flat and how amazing it looked that night. Multi coloured lights trailed the windows, and tinsel hung low on the bookshelves. A small tree sat in one corner with green and red baubles hanging upon it, and three stocking were sitting on the mantelpiece above the fireplace._

_Sherlock kept playing the violin, his eyes locked on the window, and pretended to be non different about it all although deep down he was happy. For once, he truly belonged somewhere._

A loud crash woke him up, and he looked over to see Moriarty smashing the TV with a metal pole. He caught Sherlock's eye and grinned.

"Your turn."


	5. Mycroft

A/n: Sorry for the late update. I haven't been in an angst mood recently so didn't like the chapter that much. Now I'm sat here, playing sad songs, and feeling in the right mood to write this.

Thank you for your reviews, alerts, fave's - it does mean a lot to me.

Warnings: Language, mainly.

Disclaimer: I still do not own Sherlock.

Enjoy.

* * *

"My turn?"

Moriarty walked over and Sherlock tried to look as defiant as he could. It was hard though, he was handcuffed to a bed and had never felt as weak as this before. His mouth was dry, and he licked his lips, knowing that it was stupid, but not caring. He didn't even regret it when his lips felt tighter and his mouth began to burn.

"Yes, you can either beat the shit out of this TV, or I can beat the shit out of you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as best as he could and rattled his handcuffs slightly to get Moriarty to uncuff him. When he was free he sat up slowly and rubbed his back, the cuffs made him lie in an awkward position causing his body to ache like a bitch.

He cracked his back, stretched his arms and stood up.

"Pole."

Moriarty smiled and handed him the metal pole. It was heavier than Sherlock thought - or maybe he was just really weak - and he stumbled slightly as Moriarty let go.

He swung the pole and felt himself fall forward, before the pole hit the TV and crashed through. Moriarty laughed and patted him on the back causing him to fall onto his knees. He dropped the pole - which rolled away with a loud clatter - and bowed his head. He couldn't do this anymore, he didn't have the fight nor the energy.

Moriarty grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him up, "Well that was pathetic," he snarled and without another word he threw Sherlock as hard as he could against the bed. His head hit the hard wood and he let out a whimper before curling himself into a tight ball.

He heard Moriarty leave and felt himself shiver - either in pain or relief, he wasn't sure. After a few moments he was still shivering, and he lifted his head up slightly. His breath was crystallizing in front of him - Moriarty was cooling the room, rapidly. Sherlock pulled himself into a tighter ball, and let himself fall asleep knowing it could be the last thing he ever did. Death was better than this, surely?

_He was back at the Manor. He must of been around seven years old in this dream, but he remembered it vividly. He and Mycroft were outside in the Sun, both of them on their backs, staring up at the clouds. _

_"Look, there's a cake," Mycroft grinned, pointing at a funny shaped cloud. _

_Sherlock giggled, "You and your cakes, My, that's obviously a deerstalker."_

_Mycroft turned to look at him, "How do you know what a deerstalker is?"_

_"Father has three, I wear them when he isn't looking," Sherlock replied, looking smug._

_Mycroft smiled, "What about that one then?" he asked, pointing to another cloud._

_"Hedgehog," Sherlock smirked._

_"How does that look like a hedgehog?" _

_Sherlock rolled his eyes before saying, "Look, My, there's the nose and there's the spikes. It's obviously a hedgehog."_

_They lay like that for hours - just pointing at random clouds and making fun suggestions. The Sun had set and the wind had picked up by the time they finally went inside, holding onto each other and giggling amongst themselves._

Sherlock turned over, jolting him awake. The room was now stupidly warm and it didn't take him long before he fell back asleep.

_This time he was 11, and at a boarding school. He didn't want to be here, not on his own. No one liked him, and they thought his mind reading trick was creepy and unnatural. _

_One day, whilst he was outside, a group of boys a few years older than himself came over. They didn't say a word, just pounced on Sherlock and punched him all over. He screamed, he cried, but that only caused them to punch him harder. He shielded his eyes and prayed for it to be over soon._

_Then a moment later one of the boys went flying backwards, shortly followed by the others. Sherlock spun around and saw Mycroft stood there looking furious. He was sweating and his hands were curled up into fists. _

_"Leave my brother alone, or I will kill all of you, one by one," he said quietly, his posture never changing._

_The boys gave him one look and then ran off._

_Sherlock stood up and walked over to his brother. Without a word he buried his face into Mycroft's neck and broke down. _

_"Sherlock," Mycroft said softly, "I would do anything for you - die even, you're my brother and I love you."_

Sherlock woke up, tears streaming down his face. Where was Mycroft now? Did he even care about him anymore? The room was now at normal temperature and Sherlock knew what was happening - This was another game, to mess with his head, and make it seem as though he was crazy.

Moriarty couldn't do anything to make Sherlock worse, he was already in physical and emotional pain. Moriarty even turned his own brother, and the people of Scotland Yard against him. What more could he do?

He wiped his eyes and lay back down, this time dreaming of John.


	6. The End?

A/n: Sorry for the long wait, my muse ran away.

Everything was white, blurry and somehow surreal. Maybe he had secretly died and was waiting to move on. If that was true then he felt relief. No more torture, no more pain, no more Moriarty. It also meant no more John.

The white light got brighter and brighter until -

Sherlock woke up, his eyes squinting against the light that was now flooding into the room. What the fuck was going on? He pushed his head into the pillow, his eyes now burning and raw. Was this another game?

"_Morning Sleepyhead! ... I was going to nudge you awake but well, this was a better idea. I have a special ahhh - task for you to do today. If you refuse, someone will die."_

The light was shut off and Sherlock lifted his head slowly, his eyes still seeing weird patterns against the wall. He pushed himself into a sitting position and was surprised to find himself uncuffed. Rubbing his eyes, he stared around the room, taking in everything and anything. The broken TV was gone, replaced with an even bigger one. Speakers were placed in each of the four corners and a new chair sat in the middle of the room.

The door slid open and Moriarty walked in, his eyes lighting up at the sight of Sherlock.

"You look like shit," he said, grinning, "Are you ready?"

Was he ready? He could barely move let alone get up and do whatever the hell Moriarty wanted him to do. His mouth was now so dry that he grew numb to it, his back was aching and his arms and legs felt as though they were no longer attached to his body. _Was he ready?_

He got up slowly, using the headboard as support, and stumbled over to Moriarty. His head was killing and he desperately needed to pee. His mind wandered back to John and he hoped that, wherever he was, that he was okay. If being in here meant that John was safe then he had no regrets.

Moriarty pointed to the chair and Sherlock sat down, his eyes narrowing. Was he merely watching something? He had half expected to be leaving the room, or at least half hoped that he would be leaving. He stared at the blank screen, his back now aching even more, and waited for Moriarty to continue.

The TV flicked on, revealing an empty field. Well partly empty. In one corner stood two horses, both of them were saddled. Sherlock turned away from the screen and eyed Moriarty suspiciously.

"I don't get it," he muttered.

"Oh, you will, keep watching."

Sherlock turned back to the screen and felt his jaw drop. Two men were being walked into view, two very familiar men. How did Moriarty get hold of Lestrade and Dimmock? He watched as two of Moriarty's men walked in carrying some rope and instructed them to sit on the field.

"Do you get it yet? Horses... Rope... Put it together."

Sherlock stayed quiet.

"Well, let me enlighten you. Choose one, either Lestrade or Dimmock."

"What for?"

Moriarty rolled his eyes, "Just choose, or I shoot them both in the head."

Sherlock fell silent staring at the screen, his mind working fast. How do you choose something like that? One of them was going to die, he could feel it. He watched as they huddled close to each other, fear etched on both of their faces. They knew it too.

He wanted Lestrade to be safe, he knew the guy for 5 years, of course he would choose him. But still, he didn't want to be responsible for an innocent mans death. He didn't know Dimmock well, but he still didn't deserve this. None of them did.

He swallowed, the words catching in his throat, and said, "Lestrade, I choose Lestrade."

"Good choice!" Moriarty said, laughing. He pulled out a phone and muttered, "Tie him up."

Sherlock watched as one of Moriarty's men grabbed Dimmock and pulled him to his feet. The other man then joined him and they both attached the rope to Dimmock's wrists, making sure it was tight. Suddenly everything clicked into place and Sherlock turned away, cursing under his breath.

"You can't... Just shoot him, don't do that..." His voice was croaky, desperate, and he wanted it all to stop. How many more would die because of him?

"Where's the fun in shooting him? Would be over too quickly, nah this is much better." He walked towards the TV and turned up the volume.

Sherlock stared the screen, his heart beating rapidly, as each of the men mounted a horse, both of them still holding onto the rope. Dimmock was now struggling furiously, his face pale, and Sherlock couldn't watch anymore. He buried his face in his hands and tried to drown out the sounds of Lestrade's cry and Dimmock's struggling. Why wasn't Lestrade helping? They were meant to be friends after all.

"Oh, the D.I can't move," Moriarty said, smiling, "He has four snipers on him. He's watching all of this, just like you are."

"Are you going to kill him?" Sherlock growled, "Greg? Are you going to kill him? You can't let him go, not after seeing this."

Moriarty shook his head, "No... I don't know what I'm going to do with him yet. Maybe I'll kill him after all, now shush." He turned back towards the TV, holding his phone to one ear, and said, "Now."

The two men hit the horses, causing them to run in opposite directions and Sherlock buried his face tighter in his hands, his mind desperately trying to ignore the sounds. It was coming closer and closer until -

The TV shut off and Moriarty's face fell.

"What the?" He muttered, pressing buttons in frustration, "Dammit! I will skin whoever sold me this piece of crap." He kicked the TV and walked out of the room, not bothering to look back at Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't move. Even though the TV was off, it still happened. Dimmock was still dead, and Greg was probably being tortured somewhere. Maybe if he killed himself it would all stop.

He got up and walked over to the TV, picking up the control. Turning it over in his fingers he thought about John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Three people who trusted him, who gave him a chance, and who he had let down. He took a deep breath and smashed the control onto the floor, causing it to splinter and fall apart. Quickly, he picked up a shard of plastic and studied it. It was sharp, it could do serious damage.

Lifting up his shirt, he stared at his pale body. Lack of food showed up, his ribs were easily visible and he had cuts and bruises all over his stomach. Nothing seemed to be healing, it was as though his body had given up. He didn't need it, it was, after all, merely transport.

Without another thought he dragged the shard across his stomach, not even wincing at the pain. He felt blackness consume him and welcomed it's grip. No one else would die, not for him. He was ending this.


	7. Housekeeper

A/N: Sorry for the wait... Real life got in the way :(

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

Warnings: Moriarty being a bastard as usual.

* * *

The sound of bleeping echoed around the room. Sherlock didn't want to open his eyes for surely he was dead now. The last thing he felt was intense pain and then numbness took over. His last thoughts were of John and how he hoped that this - whatever this was - was now finished. Although, if this really was death then it didn't feel nearly as painless as he had hoped. He could still feel a faint stinging in his lower stomach, and the rest of his body just felt heavy. There was also a mild discomfort in his right arm, which now that he had his attention on it, got more and more annoying by the second.

He opened his eyes and immediately shut them again.

The walls were a blinding white and he felt as though they had burnt a hole in his eyelids. From the brief glimpse that he got, he could see that he was in a small, blank room. Being as observant as he was meant that he didn't need a lot of time to access the situation. In that small second he could tell that he was in some sort of hospital and that it was basic - to put it nicely - with only one chair and a small cupboard.

Which meant one thing. He was still alive.

Of course he was. Moriarty wouldn't have left him to die. Where was the fun in that? If Sherlock was dead then the game would be over. One thing was for sure though, Moriarty was going to be majorly pissed.

Another thing that Sherlock noticed was the fact that his body didn't feel as weak anymore. Sure he still felt cut up and like absolute death but his mouth wasn't dry and his stomach wasn't empty.

He opened his eyes again, slowly this time, and turned his head slightly to the right. In his arm was a huge needle, accompanied by a drip with some orange looking fluid. Sherlock could tell that the fluid was medication as well as nutrients for his body, which explained why he felt so numb and also explained the bleeping, for behind the fluid pack was a machine measuring his heartbeat.

"Ah, you're awake. Good."

Sherlock didn't hear the door open but he recongized the voice straight away. Moriarty was stood in the doorway wearing his usual black suit. His hair was slicked back and he had a manic expression on his face.

"Where am I?" Sherlock groaned, pushing himself into a sitting position.

"Just another room in the warehouse. Oh I knew you'd pull this kind of stunt to get away. I had this room built especially for when that day came. I must say though, I am rather disappointed. I thought you'd last longer before you ran away."

Moriarty walked into the room and sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed, still wearing the same expression. Sherlock didn't want to look at him, not after everything that had happened, but he felt drawn for some reason. Maybe it was because Moriarty smelt faintly like smoke and Sherlock was craving so bad right now.

"I brought in one of the finest Doctors to operate on you. It was a close call but we managed to save you. You _nearly _got lucky and your plan nearly worked but we got to you in the last few seconds. Phew eh?" He beamed.

Sherlock didn't reply, he was still craving but he would _never _ask Moriarty for one. Never. Instead he turned to face the other way, pretending to read what was on the drip.

"Oh, by the way, I do have to punish you for trying to escape. So I erm -" He broke off, smiling, "I took care of your er housekeeper is it?"

Sherlock snapped his eyes up to Moriarty's and felt as though all the blood had drained from his body. Mrs Hudson? He wouldn't have touched her, would he? How would he even have gotten hold of her? But then he remembered that Moriarty was capable of doing that. He managed to get Greg and Dimmock, he could easily get Mrs Hudson.

"What did you do to her?" He snarled, his hands clenching into fists and his heart beating erratically. The machine behind him started to bleep louder but he ignored it, his attention fully on the psychopath in front of him.

"Oh - well..." He laughed, straightening his tie and suit, "She took a long walk off a short ... bridge."

Sherlock felt as though his heart had stopped beating all together. He felt as though time itself had stopped. His eyes glazed over and he blocked out Moriarty's crazy laughter. He withdrew himself completely, instead choosing to focus on the memories of Mrs Hudson that he had kept locked away in his Mind.

_"Mrs Hudson, I couldn't afford a place like this... It's pretty much in Central London."_

_Mrs Hudson shook her head and smiled, "Then pay me what you can afford... At least until you get a flat mate. You're not staying out on the streets anymore. It's cold and look at you, there's hardly anything there! Can't your brother help you out?"_

_"No, I'd only bring him down. I don't need his help or his money anyway," Sherlock sniffed, shivering as he subconsciously scratched his arm._

_Mrs Hudson put the kettle on and sighed, "What about that DI? You and he used to be close."_

_"Lestrade? He offered to let me stay. But he and his wife are having "domestic issues" or so he calls it. I told him straight up that his wife was cheating again, but he wouldn't believe me. Anyway, he only has a small flat."_

_"Then you're staying here," Mrs Hudson said, handing him a cup of hot tea, "And then you'll find a flat mate... And hopefully not be as lonely anymore."_

_Sherlock snorted, "Who'd want me as a flat mate?"_

Mrs Hudson had always been there for him. He had protected her time and time again from people like Moriarty, but this time he had failed. She was another innocent person who had died for Moriarty's sick game. He wished he could turn back time and shoot Moriarty on the spot. He wished that he had never got involved with John or Mrs Hudson, or even Lestrade. Without him they would have all been fine. He didn't want to ask Moriarty what had happened to Greg, for he didn't know if he could take anymore pain or heartache. His body felt cold and the memories kept flicking across his mind refusing to stay in place.

" - Next time it'll be John."

Sherlock shook his head a little and turned his gaze back to Moriarty, "... What?"

Moriarty frowned, clearly displeased at not being listened to, "I said... If you fuck up again I'll kill John... Or maybe torture him. Or both." he broke off, looking thoughtful.

"No."

"Sorry, what?" Moriarty said, looking bemused.

"I said no. You won't kill or even _harm _John. I won't let you."

Moriarty's face broke into a grin, "And you think you can stop me? You think _you _can do that?"

Sherlock looked him in the eye and smiled back, "Yes."


	8. All In One Place

**A/N: I am sooooo sorry for the late update. I have had so much crap in my life -.- but I'm back now and will be updating regularly. **

**Warnings: Er. Mild swearing. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. **

The warehouse where Moriarty had Sherlock held hostage was a large grubby looking building. Forty four rooms were littered across the five floors. Most of the rooms lay empty, apart from one. This room was exactly two floors below Sherlock and contained nothing but three chairs and three people.

The three occupants inside were huddled in separate corners. None of them could see each other due to the fact that they had all been blinded. Moriarty had formulated a new chemical that could take away a persons ability to see. Childs play to him. He injected the three victims and threw them into the room together.

One of them, a silver haired man, got to his knees and held out a timid arm, 'Who-Who is it? Who's out there? I warn you I'm armed.' He fell silent, listening intently.

A scuffle from nearby made his ears prick up and he turned his head, trying to see something... Anything.

'Greg? Is that you?'

'John?'

'Yeah it's me,' The scuffle got louder and someone bumped into Greg's shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. 'Shit. Sorry mate. Can you see?'

'No, although it's hard to tell. So God damn dark in here.'

He pulled himself in a crouching position, leaning against John, his ears picking up a third noise. A faint muffled sound in the far corner.

'Who's that?' He murmured, hoping John could hear him.

'I don't know, I can't see remember?' Shaking his head, John called out, 'Who is it? Who else is here? Speak up now!'

The noise stopped and someone shifted to Greg's right, a lighter weight this time. A frail hand reached out and grabbed his knee, making him jump and shuffle backwards.

'Detective? It's me,' The voice was faint, 'John, where's Sherlock?'

'Can you see, Mrs Hudson? Why would he _do_ this?'

'No Gregory, I can't. And I assume this is all just a game to him.'

'Mrs Hudson? How long have _you _been here?' John moved towards her, crawling over Greg's feet.

'Ow! Watch it!'

John tutted. 'Greg, what part of 'I can't see' don't you understand?' He sighed and carried on, 'They grabbed me yesterday. I was walking to the bank and a black car pulled up. Thought it was Mycroft until two smelly men got out and gagged me. Mycroft's never been _that _kinky before.'

Greg snorted, pulling his knees close and resting his chin on top, 'He's had me for days now. I was walking to my house the other night and they jumped me. Next thing I know Im in a field with Dimmock-' He broke off, swallowing thickly. 'Apparently Sherlock had to choose which one of us to save.'

John made a small noise at Sherlock's name but didn't speak.

'They killed him. Dimmock. Just like that. Made me watch, it was horrifying. I can't even sleep anymore... but I don't understand why he hasn't killed us.'

'We're the three people closest to Sherlock,' Mrs Hudson said quietly, grasping John's hand, 'Maybe he has something special planned for us. Moriarty got me whilst I was polishing. Or rather, one of his men did. I left them with a little present though.' She gave a small giggle.

John let out a low whistle and turned, trying to locate Greg. 'Do you still think Sherlock's a fake? I still haven't forgiven you for arresting him you know.'

'You're bringing that up _now_?!' He shook his head, before realizing that John couldn't see, 'I never thought Sherlock was a fake. Trust me when I say, I had no choice.'

'The little Detective is a good liar.'

A door opened and Greg found himself being pulled to his feet and slammed into a chair. Ropes were tied tightly around his arms and legs, giving him no room to move. He could hear John and Mrs Hudson on either side of him and was just about to open his mouth to reply, when something stabbed him in the arm. An injection. But what for?

His head felt light and nausea flooded through him before he began to regain his vision. Slowly but surely he could make out three outlines. They were blurry at first, but the more he blinked the more they came into focus, until he could see clearly again.

He looked to his right, to where John was and felt his jaw drop. John was pale, so pale. His clothes were ripped. The jumper that he wore to the Christmas party was torn and covered in blood. He was in here for _one _day. What have they done to him? He scanned higher and looked into John's eyes. They were still glazed over, staring straight past Greg.

'Only one of you can see.' A smooth voice said, 'This makes things more interesting, yes?'

Turning his head to the left, Greg stared at Mrs Hudson. She was as pale as John and her whole body was shaking. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap and she kept looking from side to side. Unable to watch any longer, he turned back to Moriarty.

'You bastard! Where's Sherlock? What have you done with him?!'

'Why don't you see for yourself?' Moriarty said, smiling. He nodded to someone outside the door and suddenly a large TV was being pushed into the room.

Moriarty grabbed a remote off the man and flicked the TV on. Greg watched in horror as a small room slowly came into view. Inside the room was a familiar - very familiar - man. Sherlock was curled up in the fetal position and only had a shirt on. He was dangerously thin and Greg had never seen him so bad. Even in his drug days he wasn't like that. He was nothing more than a skeleton right now and it made Greg sick. He clenched his teeth and turned his eyes to Moriarty.

'What have you done to him you sick fucker?!'

'What's going on? Is Sherlock here?' John was tugging at the ropes, swinging his head from side to side wildly. 'Greg? What's happening?'

Greg didn't reply. What could he say? He could hear John getting more and more frustrated and instantly understood why Moriarty only returned _his_ sight. He mentally slapped himself for falling for the bait and turned to John, trying to keep his voice even.

'He's fine. Just a little dirty, that's all.'

'The little Detective is a _really _good liar. Oops!' Moriarty laughed, leaning against the door. He flicked the TV off and walked out of the room, throwing a small smirk in Greg's direction. The door slammed shut, leaving an awkward silence behind.

'Why did you lie?' John's voice was cold.

'Because you would flip if you saw the truth. It's not a pretty picture.'

Silence. And then -

'Is he alive?'

Gritting his teeth, Greg replied.

'Barely.'


End file.
